


The last goodbye, I swear

by doomed_spectacles



Series: If I could love like anybody else [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Banter, Bittersweet, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Dialogue Heavy, Feels, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Phone Calls & Telephones, Pining, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Unresolved Romantic Tension, the 1980s, the pining is dialed up to eleven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21825262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles
Summary: Everything between them is said underneath the words.Crowley and Aziraphale have a phone conversation about who they are and, among other things, the Flock of Seagulls haircut that popped up in the 1980s.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: If I could love like anybody else [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1504748
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70





	The last goodbye, I swear

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, so this is me trying something different ... trying to get at some of the feelings more directly than I'm usually comfortable writing. This is me outside my comfort zone. There's a lot of angst here but some humor too, because these two are naturally funny, even when they're hopelessly in love and it feels like it's doomed.
> 
> Title from [The Last Goodbye by The Kills](https://open.spotify.com/track/4YmCyyRkzmPQXdKWDvd1YB).

[1982]

Something about the twentieth century makes it worse. Or maybe it's the decade. Specifically, the 1980s. Something about the 1980s makes it worse. There's so much color about this decade. Everything is neon. It burns the retinas, lasts too long after looking away, and I've been dancing this dance for far too long.

"So if you could be so kind as to-"

"Don't say that."

"Right. I appreciate it though, Crowley. I do."

"You'll still owe me. I don't do this out of the-"

"Yes, Crowley, I know. All the same."

"Let me know if you get anything good. Don't do anything I wouldn't do to those booksellers. Or actually, yes, do _exactly_ what I would do to those booksellers and then tell me about it when you get back."

He lets out a breathy laugh and a _hmmm_. He means to sound like he's scolding but he really doesn't. "Right, well then. Very good."

He doesn't hang up. Neither do I. These damn humans invented a way for me to hang on his every word in _real fucking time_. For centuries no one had to know but me if his letters wore through from reading. Papers disintegrated, pressed into my breast pocket and kept there for years, decades. He never saw how long it took to write back. How many crumpled sheets lit up the fireplace before the words were good enough. The damned quill never gave me away.

"Still there?"

A shuffling on the other end. Papers rustling. "Yes. Ah, I was- well, you see. How have you- that is-"

"If you say s _till a demon then?_ I am hanging up the phone."

He's trying. He's trying and that makes it worse. When he doesn't hang up but instead dithers and fidgets and I can feel him through the line. I can feel the layers on him shifting, rearranging. Layers of suede and tartan and armor around that hard _fucking angelic perfect goddamn_ heart. I can hear him shifting. Squirming in that antique chair and not hanging up and he's trying to meet me. It's nowhere near halfway, not even close. But he's _trying_ and that makes the ache so much worse.

Aziraphale chuckles on the other end. "Indeed. I saw you some years back and you weren't an aardvark, so I suppose we can put that conversation topic to rest."

"Not a moment too soon."

You're goddamn right you saw me some years back.

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

Too fast. Six thousand years, what's another six thousand more? I'd fucked around in America, after that. Can't go too fast in America, it's bloody America! Go be a proper demon in America. New York. Filled with the heady mist of ambition, greed, and the shiny veneer of postwar consumerism. So many cars and people and sin in New York. What a great place to hide from that look on your face.

_Better not._

Better not push your luck, Crowley. But what did you do? Pushed your damn luck. So you went to New York to hide from all the feelings that couldn't show on your face so they traveled from the top of your head down to your fancy snakeskin feet. You danced down the miserable streets of miserable damn New York and it was _not_ a great place to hide.

The entire goddamn _earth_ is not a great place to hide, and what's the alternative? The stinking basement where I belong? Because this ache in my chest, this ringing in my ears when you say my name- it won't quit no matter what plane of reality I exist on, so long as there's one where you exist too.

He clears his throat. Was he doing the same? Replaying words over and over like a Victrola lodged in the mind? Was he thinking _I'll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go_ or was he just drifting, sailing along, driftwood in a sea of Her ineffable, inscrutable, oh-so-conditional love?

"Do you know? A man came into my shop today."

"The nerve. A man walking into a small business."

He ignores me. He's trying. He's reaching and it hurts and I never want him to stop.

"He had the most ridiculous flop of hair on his head. He said something about seabirds, of all things!"

"Seagulls. Flock of Seagulls, angel."

"It was frightful. Scared the other customers right off."

"You sure it was the haircut that did it?"

"Well, I may have encouraged them to leave. But anyway..."

"Why was he telling you about his hair?"

"I made a perfectly casual remark about it. You're missing the _point_ , Crowley!" 

I can hear him huff, can see the pout as clear as the view out my window. His forehead is scrunched and he's puffed up. He's bluffing. He knows it and I know it. It's lead in my stomach and a weight on my chest. It's all the ways this human body has of telling me _I want_ and _I cannot have_.

"So a paying customer entered your shop, you insulted his horrendous haircut, then used it as an excuse to chase everyone else out."

"I - that's not - you should have _seen_ this hair, Crowley, then you'd understand."

"Oh, I know, angel. That haircut was actually my doing and I'm not proud of it, so don't go rubbing it in."

"I should have known," he says, and I can hear his smile. "Though you're usually quite stylish, dear. Not your best work."

There it is. I'm _fucked_. Can he hear it? How do the wires not melt with it? This ridiculous fussy angel who gossips about his human charges with his sworn enemy.

I sputter. Make some indignant noises into the receiver, as if he'd actually insulted me. As if he hadn't hidden a compliment inside the barb. The hidden gem of sweetness in the tart that makes the flavor pop. I can feel his satisfaction, can see that smug smile spreading over perfect lips. 

"So you'll cover the-"

"Yes, I got you covered, angel. A child will be blessed in Essex. Destined for great things, no doubt."

"I appreciate- well, thank-"

"Don't worry about it. Good luck with the stuffy old booksellers."

" _I'm_ a stuffy old bookseller, you know!"

"Funny, I thought you were an angel." 

"Crowley, you-"

He's starting to see it. That you don't have to be what you are. Maybe he's always known but couldn't say it. I'll say it. Shout it to the heavens for all the good it does. But I'll be there. I'll always be there in case he finally says it out loud.

"Don't take it from me, I'm just an aardvark."

He actually laughs. More than a chuckle, less than a guffaw. But it's genuine. Like the sun coming out unexpectedly during a day otherwise covered in clouds.

"Goodbye, Crowley."

"Ciao."

**Author's Note:**

> [this is Crowley in New York in the 60s](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504685)
> 
> [this is flock of seagulls hair](https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-5imP3qGCSMs%2FWuTRGf40sfI%2FAAAAAAAADz4%2Fv4TLQO8292EChWEzngibtOOoKyyX5FCpwCLcBGAs%2Fs1600%2Fflock-of-seagulls-hair-style.jpg&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.cleanbang.com%2F2018%2F04%2Fflock-of-seagulls-hair-origin.html&docid=FM9chYkdXmaeMM&tbnid=pQ17axCdSoyFdM%3A&vet=10ahUKEwjI2-O_pbvmAhWFLc0KHd0WAE8QMwhtKAMwAw..i&w=725&h=350&bih=578&biw=1280&q=flock%20of%20seagulls%20hair&ved=0ahUKEwjI2-O_pbvmAhWFLc0KHd0WAE8QMwhtKAMwAw&iact=mrc&uact=8#h=350&imgdii=racuHTqJlwAvMM:&vet=10ahUKEwjI2-O_pbvmAhWFLc0KHd0WAE8QMwhtKAMwAw..i&w=725) for any who are fortunate enough not to know
> 
> [this is me on Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/doomed-spectacles)


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